Defilement
by Requiem to Misery
Summary: RoyMarth. Rumors have been flying about that maybe a certain prince is getting married, and Roy can't stand the thought. One must wonder if no one told him to look before he leaped... rape warnings.
1. Last Chance

Standard disclaimer applies--I do not own Super Smash Brothers, Fire Emblem, or the lovely pair featured in this fanfic. The "Smash Mansion" is the property of fan-canon (or fanon, as I like to call it), in all likelihood--I've seen it in enough SSBM fics--and so I'll slap a disclaimer on that too.

Just to warn you, there is **yaoi** in this--meaning boys getting it on with boys. Don't like it? Don't read it--nobody's forcing you to.You know where that back button is. Also, keep in mind that this is indeed a **rapefic**. Before you call me sick and twisted for writing one (It may be true, but that's not the point) you need to remember it was in the summary. And on another note--lemony content!

Roy's POV. You still with me? All right. Enjoy the story, and don't worry about the plotlessness of this chapter. There'll be plot later..

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Last Chance

"No… no, Roy, please…"

His cries are delicious. I drink them in, and glutton as I am I plunder his pretty rosy lips for more. He melts into the kiss with a sob, tears leaking from those beautifully cold eyes. He cannot push me away, I have tied his hands to the bars of the headboard. All he can do is lie there and let me ravish him, my royal prize.

Even as his pleading is reduced to incoherent gasps and moans under my hands that know exactly where to touch, where to pinch and rub and squeeze—for it isn't as if I haven't fantasized about this before, after all—I can hardly keep from taking him right then and there. But I have to do this slowly, I have to make him like it. I can't hurt him too much, otherwise he'll never see how much I love him. Still… he looks absolutely delectable. If I could have devoured him I would have, but I settle for planning my descent upon that half-staff member between his legs.

The only thought in my head is that this is my last chance. After all, tomorrow he will leave the Smash Mansion in his best formal outfit, as expected of a prince becoming a groom. He will take the hand of his bride-to-be and they will present themselves to a priest, who will then bind them in holy matrimony for the rest of their foreseeable future. It makes my stomach turn to realize how close I am to losing this rare beauty, this angelic prince who captured my heart from the first time I laid eyes on him. I can barely think the words, let alone 'honeymoon,' and my despair leads me to suck hard upon his collarbone. I know I'm leaving a mark, and his bride can (and undoubtedly will) ask him about it—it's just a selfish way of keeping him mine, because no matter what he says he'll always know that it was I who left this mark of possession upon him. _My_ beautiful, icy prince. I like the sound of that.

Still, it doesn't really matter. Lapping at the tip of his half-hardness (and from the look of pained, constantly disrupted concentration on his face, he must have been staving off the evidence of his arousal the best he could—I had to commend him for his efforts, at least) I cannot help but smile at the strangled sound of pleasure that rips from his throat. His widened eyes had already betrayed him, and oh, the sobbing breaths and heady moans make me so impossibly hard!

"Ahhh, ah! Roy… no, sto—unghhh, hahh! Please…"

But it doesn't stop there. Soon he is writhing beneath my hands and my mouth, although more than once I have to shift the former to his hips to keep him from bucking into my throat. As much as seeing him in such ecstasy might be worth it, I would rather that I not suffer the damage for it—and I scrape my teeth ever so gently along his member, as a bit of a warning. The hiss I receive for my trouble does not sound displeased, however.

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Preparation is slow, languid. As much as he resists, tightening his passage so that my fingers can move neither in nor out, I coax him to behave by teasing him with sensations it is clear he has never felt before, except perhaps by his own hand. Soon he completely forgets that he was trying to keep my digits from invading his body, and when I touch that spot inside him he throws his head back, baring his neck to me, and groans. His face bore such a gorgeous look of helpless pleasure that I could not help but do it a few more times just to extend its time on his features.

I needed him. I wanted to make him mine. I wanted to mark him so that he knew who it was that he belonged to. I traced my name on his pectorals with my tongue—two characters in _katakana_, six strokes. Again in English—three characters, three smooth tracings. I savor his hitched breaths and quiet moans like a rare kind of sweet, something to enjoy to the fullest. Somehow, though, he finds breath and the coherence to speak.

"Please, Roy, ah! No… we can't do this—ahh… sto—mmph!" I distract him with a forceful kiss as I slick myself and press against that tight pucker that has probably never dealt with this kind of intrusion before. As I slide inside, I play with his erection a little—it is harder now than before, though it has softened a bit from the pain of entry. He is every bit as tight as I imagined, and though at first his expression shows a little pain he seemed to gradually relax, slowly becoming accustomed to my presence inside him. Fingering the blue curls at the base of his shaft (I found it rather amusing that he was, indeed, a genuine bluenette, and though I did not comment on it the fact was still of some entertainment value) I sucked the tip into my mouth again. Teasing it with my tongue and lashing the shaft with long, slow licks, I did not find the salty bitterness of his precome entirely disagreeable. Perhaps it had to do with how he began pleading with me not to tease him so terribly, his skin flushed with the heat of arousal and tears welling anew from his eyes.

Long, steady thrusts went deeper, faster, harder, and all he could do was spread his legs wider and plead for more with breathless moans and impassioned cries. Clearly he no longer thought of the coming wedding, nor of his future wife—all he could see was me, all he could feel was how much he liked being impaled upon my sex. Stroking him once, I watched as he arched his back and cried out helplessly, his first climax something that will probably be imprinted on my memory forever. He was truly a stunning creature—but I wasn't done with him yet.

After all, he was still hard. I angled my thrusts carefully, and when I hit his prostate and stroked him firmly at the same time he threw his head back and quietly keened my name. Hoisting his right leg over my left shoulder, I thrust in still deeper, harder, and he rewarded me by crying my name again.

I had never once dreamed that the cold, handsome—nay, ravishingly beautiful—prince of Altea would look so utterly luscious like this; his skin flushed, lithe body covered in sweat, and his rock-hard, leaking arousal jutting proudly from between his legs as he met my every thrust with a moan and a push of his hips against mine. It was not long before he covered my stomach in his release with a wail and a strangled cry that sounded like my name—I was not long after him, his orgasm pushing me ever so close to the edge. His walls clenched around me, almost painfully—three thrusts and I stiffened and spilled my seed deep inside him, breathing his name softly as I claimed his mouth again one last time.

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"Roy… why did you do it? I… I never wanted this…" He buried his face into the side of one of his arms, unwilling to look at me. Tomorrow, he will marry a princess, dressed in his best formal attire as such royal weddings require. Tomorrow, he will no longer be only mine.

I look at him long and hard, taking in every detail of his still naked body—his lean, muscular form, his coldly attractive blue eyes, that impossible-yet-natural shade of blue hair… his pale thighs, softened length, the hickey I left on his collarbone, the tracks that his tears have left on his face. I have yet to untie his hands from the headboard. In the end, I cannot tell him anything but what is the truth in my eyes.

"I love you," I say, and he looks like he's been punched in the stomach. "I don't want to lose you. This… was my last chance." _This was my last chance to make you mine_.

He looks at me, his expression now unreadable, and says carefully, "You are a fool, Roy." Then he closes his mouth and will say nothing more. Shutting his eyes, he spreads his legs and offers himself to me in silence.

* * *

A/N: Dreadful excuse, really, but I was quite terribly bored and in a mildly sadistic mood. **shrug** At least Roy didn't do any excess damage aside from the whole scarring-the-psyche deal that usually results from rape. Erm... yeah. Hated it, loved it, wanted to call me a psychotic bastard with too much time on my hands? By all means, reviews are the best places to do that. 

Cheers,  
Kazuki


	2. Aftermath

Part 2 of Defilement. I wound up writing this part around the poem called "Déjeuner du matin" by Jacques Prévert. You'll find it in quotation marks, in italics. Just so nobody slaps a lawsuit on me—I did not write the poem. I do not claim creative ownership to the poem. It's a lovely poem, but I am not quite that talented in French. I don't own these characters either, but this demented little storyline is courtesy of me and my boredom-amplified imagination.

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"_Il a mis le café_

_Dans la tasse_

Marth drinks coffee every morning from the same cup. Even today, he does so. It is not as if anything has changed, from the way he's acting… except that something's just a little out of place. I can't really put my finger on it, it's just that… it's a little too quiet. Then again, it is Sunday. Most of the Smashers are still asleep at this time—normally I would be among those still lying abed, but I woke up as my door was closing behind him. I guess he'd already eaten breakfast by the time I had dressed and walked down to the dining room, although one would never guess from the complete absence of anything resembling a breakfast dish anywhere in his vicinity.

"_Il a mis le lait_

_Dans la tasse de café_

I used to tease him for putting milk in his coffee (and his tea, for the matter), simultaneously admiring his hands pouring that same milk with steady precision. Today, though, his hand shakes and he uses both of his hands instead of just one. The precision is still there, but it is less fluid and more mechanical—as if he is not entirely there.

"_Il a mis le sucre_

_Dans le café au lait_

He used to good-naturedly smile at my teasing about his liking _café au lait_. Today I can't tease him—it doesn't seem right, and I have a feeling that he is not particularly inclined to be good-natured anyway. As much as I silently plead with the sugar bowl to sweeten his current disposition a little, I know my efforts are in vain. He seems fully absorbed in what he is doing, mechanically spooning two teaspoons of sugar into his cup.

"_Avec la petite cuiller_

_Il a tourné_

The little silver spoon he stirred his coffee with, the one he thoughtfully brought to his lips to check the coffee's taste, has earned my wholehearted jealousy. But… did I not already mark him last night? Why should I be green with envy of a simple spoon? My toast grows cold on the plate in front of me—my appetite is no longer there.

"_Il a bu le café au lait_

_Et il a reposé la tasse_

_Sans me parler_

The silence has begun to ring in my ears. Over the rush of blood near my eardrums I can hear the almost indiscernible slurp as he drinks his coffee, the faint clink as he sets his cup down on its saucer. He doesn't talk to me, doesn't seem to acknowledge (or want to acknowledge) that I'm sitting right across from him at a long table completely deserted except for the two of us. I know that I fucked up, badly… and now I know what was bothering me so much. I'd never gone so long without hearing his voice.

"_Il a allumé_

_Une cigarette_

When had Marth ever smoked? I hadn't tasted it on his tongue when I took him, hadn't smelled smoke in his breathless exhalations. Yet here he was, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag as if he'd done it all his life. Peach would throw a fit if she could see him so nonchalantly lighting up at the table like that. For a moment all I could do was stare—it seems that I hadn't known him as well as I thought I did.

"_Il a fait des ronds_

_Avec la fumée_

Clearly it wasn't a new thing for him. The pack of Mild Sevens lying innocently on the table besides his half-empty cup of café au lait was rather crinkled, and when he blew out the smoke he could make smoke rings. I almost laughed, but when I realized that not even the smoke had been directed anywhere near me my good humor died in my throat.

"_Il a mis les cendres_

_Dans le cendrier_

_Sans me parler_

_Sans me regarder_

He didn't cough as he tapped the ashes off the end of the cigarette into the decorative ash tray on the table, the one that Zelda had insisted we keep there for what she called "feng shui" related purposes. Nor did he offer an explanation for his apparent smoking habit. In fact—the truth of it hitting me like a barrage of Captain Falcon's punches—he wouldn't even look at me.

"_Il s'est levé_

_Il a mis  
Sur chapeau sur sa tête_

Stubbing out his joint when it had only burned halfway, Marth got up and left the table—I knew he was heading for the coat closet. He hadn't bothered with his armor today, and he'd hung a cloak in that closet in lieu of his cape. In the soap operas that Samus watched every now and again (to make fun of them, she claimed, but once I had caught her actually crying during a particularly sappy scene) this was where Marth was supposed to put on his hat—if he wore hats, anyway. As it was, he merely scoffed at the hat rack (Ness' cap was probably the only thing that ever got hung there, and that was on "formal" days) and took the cloak off its hanger in one efficient motion. As he closed the door I could see he'd barely touched the hanger itself.

"_Il a mis_

_Son manteau de pluie_

_Parce quil pleuvait_

Outside, the rain beat an irregular rat-tat-tat on the roof and the ground wherever it was paved. He put on his cloak, because he had never really fancied raincoats, and strode purposefully to the door. I couldn't just sit there—I left the table and followed him into the entrance hall. He had his hand on the doorhandle, and he could hear my footsteps as I trotted into the room behind him. I thought maybe he'd change his mind, turn around… even just say good-bye—

"_Et il est parti_

_Sous la pluie_

_Sans un parole_

_Sans me regarder_

—But he didn't. He turned the handle and pushed the heavy door open, and drawing the hood of his cloak over his head walked out into the rain. He hadn't said a word, hadn't spared me a glance. I could feel something in me suddenly break into a thousand pieces, as if I'd personally taken a mallet to it.

"_Et moi j'ai pris_

_Ma tête dans ma main_

_Et j'ai pleuré."_

There wasn't much after that. The cup still sat on the table, the cigarette butt still smoking in the ashtray, my toast untouched and stone-cold. I didn't think about that, nor about how the other Smashers would wake up soon. I didn't really care that they'd see me like this, my tunic slightly askew and my headband in my pocket rather than on my head. I think my ability to care just walked out that door with the man who stole my heart. Dimly realizing that my legs had given out and that I was on my knees on the floor of the entrance hall, I did the only thing I could think of.

I put my head in my hands, and I cried.

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_Dear Roy,_

_When you told me why you tied me to the headboard and raped me, I could have screamed. That isn't any better than the reasons other people commit the same crime for, but it doesn't do me any good telling you this now._

_I won't go into a debate with myself over whose fault it is, and I won't make excuses for you. I can, though, blame you for all the misery you caused me._

_The thing is, Roy, I don't want to ever see you again. I shouldn't even be writing you this letter, but I need to make it clear—don't come looking for me._

_There never was a wedding. When I walked into your room last night, it was to tell you that… and to confess that I liked you--no, that I loved you. Are you surprised? Perhaps not--but I never dreamed you had so little conscience…_

_I paid for my naïveté. Maybe some day, when my violation is not so fresh on my mind I will respond if you should write me. But until then… I do not wish to hear from you. Please tell the others that I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly._

_Marth_

-end-_  
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A/N: Okay, since the rulers aren't really working... dashes. Lines of dashes to denote breaks. Anyway... if you're really, really pissed that the French is incomprehensible (I thought about adding the translation, but it seemed like it kinda just killed it...) drop me a line and I'll give you a rough translation of it. It's a pretty sad poem, actually... I found it in a French binder and remembered that we'd gone over it in class once, and then--BAM. Plotbunny. Anyway, that's it. This twisted plotbunny can finally be put to rest. And... my god, there's some semblance of plot! So... yes. Please--read, reply, scream at me if you hated the ending, cry on my shoulder if you have to, yell that I've totally fucked up the lovely twisted Roy we saw last chapter... heck, if you've got some good hard criticism, I'll take it! Just... nothing stupid like, "wtf, they're not gay you asshat" please.

Cheers,  
Kazuki

P.S. Sorry to the anonymous people out there, I had the anonymous reviews disabled and didn't realize it. They've been enabled now, so... yeah. Feel free to tell me what you think too.


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